


Tomorrow Belongs to Me

by yujacheong



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Episode: s02e06 Donar the Great, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, POV Alternating, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujacheong/pseuds/yujacheong
Summary: On Odin and his son Donar, before the end.Donar didn’t always agree with his father’s methods. His father was a huckster at heart, and Donar was anything but. Deception wasn’t in his nature. He was terrible at lying.So he wasn’t thrilled about the idea of gods obtaining worship by becoming burlesque theatre stars. Still, his was an honest performance; the feats of strength were real; and so was the adulation from the audience. He could live with the pageantry and the ridiculous costumes.Yes, he could live with it. And he did. For a while, at least.





	Tomorrow Belongs to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roguefaerie (samidha)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/gifts).



The theatre was going to be their ticket into the future. Of that, the god presently calling himself Al Grimnir was absolutely certain.

He was so certain, in fact, that he was going to bet the only currency which truly mattered to the gods – worship – and he was going to bet everything they had.

‘They,’ of course, meant himself and his son Donar. Donar Odinson. It was only a taken name, of course, but Grimnir liked it well enough. Actually, come to think of it, he liked it quite well.

Alas, Donar was not impressed with the idea of a burlesque theatre. “This is spectacle, not worship. And it is lurid. I do not like it.”

“Spectacle, worship – same difference,” Grimnir replied. Bodies were banal; everybody had one. But when a body was put painted and naked onstage, it became a spectacle, a subject of reverence. Enterprising gods could use this odd phenomenon to their advantage. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be my theatre’s resident strongman. _You_ only need to be naked from the waist up.” He rapped the length of his cane against Donar’s rock-hard pectorals. “Show them those muscles!”

“I don’t know, father…”

“Ha! Good thing I do.”

The most difficult part would be convincing Donar to take his hammer onstage.

 

*

 

His father loved him. Of that, the god presently calling himself Donar Odinson was reasonably certain.

 _How_ the father was wont to show his love for the son, however – well, that was a different story entirely. Overt displays of affection weren’t his style. Hugs? Never. Earnest, heart-to-heart conversations about the meaning of the universe? Nope, not once.

His father didn’t even believe in ‘fatherly’ advice. No, Odin was more the ‘do as I say’ type of god. Given that he also believed in making Donar ‘do as I do,’ in that regard, at least, his father wasn’t a hypocrite.

Problem was, Donar didn’t always agree with his father’s methods. His father was a huckster at heart, and Donar was anything but. Deception wasn’t in his nature. He was terrible at lying.

So he wasn’t thrilled about the idea of gods obtaining worship by becoming burlesque theatre stars. Still, his was an honest performance; the feats of strength were real; and so was the adulation from the audience. He could live with the pageantry and the ridiculous costumes.

Yes, he could live with it. And he did. For a while, at least.

 

*

 

Solo acts were good, but ensemble performances were even better. The whole was bigger than the sum of its parts, which meant each part benefited disproportionately – and the head honcho benefited disproportionately most of all.

To this end, Al Grimnir began assembling his own personal burlesque pantheon. Are you a washed up divine has-been in desperate need of worship? Step riiight up!

The arrangement, such as it was, was simple: Grimnir contracted the god for a period of service. Ten years was typical. In return, the god received room, board, and a fixed proportion of the collective worship proceeds (after Grimnir took his cut as manager and owner of the august establishment, of course).

It was a good arrangement, and if they weren’t exactly prospering, they weren’t destitute and begging on the mean streets of America’s cities, either.

Well, it was good for a while, at least.

Then, like so many other things, the theatre wasn’t quite as popular anymore. Newfangled motion pictures coming from out West were becoming America’s preferred form of mass entertainment. Some theatres adapted, turning their stages into movie screens. New theatres made especially for motion pictures were also being built.

Grimnir knew his latest scheme was on borrowed time. He’d need a new angle soon. They all would if they wanted to survive.

 

*

 

Sports were about competition, it was true. But sports were also about showmanship…and Donar had to admit that his father had prepared him very well for the showman’s life.

He was good at it, and for a while, life was good. It couldn’t have been better.

Truth be told, being a mascot differed little from being a theatre performer, except that it felt more honest. He was just being _him_ – strong, powerful, an undoubted winner – and the Friends of New Germany idolized him for it. _And_ they wore his symbol. The flanged thwart. Thor’s own hammer. Except, he didn’t need to carry his hammer into sports competitions.

His father, always looking for a new angle, had encouraged him to do this. He probably wouldn’t have chosen this for himself, if not for his father’s encouragement, and if he hadn’t, he would’ve missed out on this incredible opportunity. Worship, worship in abundance – enough to carry him proudly into the twentieth century. As usual, father did know best…

…until, that is, he didn’t. Well, he didn’t know what was best for _Donar_.

Losing on purpose wouldn’t have killed Donar. In fact, his divine power would have increased, and further, throwing the competition would have secured his future as the mascot of the Friends of New Germany. Those people who idolized him, who wore his symbol. Except, thing was, Donar didn’t _want_ losing to be his story.

 

*

 

The loss broke his mighty spear. And more to the point, it broke _him_.

He’d been right, whatever small consolation that was. He’d arranged a situation for his son that would have secured his son’s future and guaranteed him an abundance of worship. Worship enough to spare. Worship enough to share, as a matter of fact – to share with his dear old dad, should his dear old dad be going wanting someday.

But Donar had abandoned the gig; he’d thrown it all away and lost everything. They’d lost everything. _Grimnir_ had lost everything.

“My son was weak,” Grimnir said aloud to the empty, echoing theatre, “and I need a strong son. I need _strength_.”

 _What is strength?_ the empty theatre seemed to ask him, mocking.

“I wanted what’s best for him,” Grimnir said. “I did.”

_But what did he want?_

“Can we ever really understand our children? Know their minds? But I love my son,” Grimnir said. “I do.”

_What is love?_

Loving someone, Grimnir knew, meant wanting them to have the best of everything. Yet, somehow, in trying to achieve that for his son, he’d been left with nothing.

It was over. His son had moved to Philadelphia and was refusing all contact with him. Time for him to move on too, he supposed, to find a new angle. Take a new name.


End file.
